


A Line in the Sand

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:11:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: When and how did they go from just being 'that group of cons working with Lieutenant Craig Garrison' to being 'Garrison's Gorillas'?War years, early on.





	A Line in the Sand

Four men from four different prisons back in the States; men with highly specialized talents; men with very different backgrounds, very different personalities. Taking them, training them, getting them to work together - that was his job. West Point graduate Lieutenant Craig Garrison had thought the biggest challenge would be learning how to control these four men, how to get the best from them in order to complete their missions successfully while keeping them from exercising their various talents in more dubious ways. 

Well, that had been a challenge, certainly, one he was more than a little pleased to see fall into place with considerable success (at least the first part, although, being a realist to some extent, sometimes he had his doubts about the second). He'd chosen well, that much was obvious, at least as far as the accumulated talents were concerned. 

Sometimes, though, looking back, he thought he'd not adequately taken into account the additional challenges that could arise, and there had been more than a few - Goniff's never-ending appetite and his apparent kleptomania, Casino's pessimism along with his craving for an occasional bareknuckle brawl. Chief's constant hunger for a view of the open sky, and his deep reserve, coming across as sullen and threatening to most observers. Actor, well, trying to balance the sophisticated and ever-so-superior con man with the other three had been difficult, especially with Garrison making the tall Italian his second-in-command, even if unofficially. And there had been a few other things, as well.

The one challenge he'd totally been blindsided by, that had been the necessity for protecting his guys. Oh, not from the enemy; on the job, of course, he tried to protect them, just as they looked out after each other, as much as the mission would allow. That was a given. They'd each of them, Garrison included, come back bunged up from doing just that, getting the job done and looking after each other. 

But the necessity for protecting them, the men, the team, from their own side, that had come as a most unwelcome surprise. That was something his training hadn't covered. The necessity, at first, then the growing NEED to protect them, which was something aligned but yet different, and THAT seemed in defiance of his officer's training about being 'separate', being 'detached', from the men he would lead. (He'd been more than a little stunned to find they seemed to feel the same need to protect him anymore. He still wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.)

That didn't happen overnight, of course; it had been a process, the problem one he hadn't picked up on right away. Well, that was perhaps understandable. It started with just small stuff, just irritations really, nothing he felt he needed to deal with, not when there were so many more important things on his plate. In fact, when something would catch his eye, make him wonder, like the Mansion supply shipments going astray yet again or the Base laundry doing such a bad job with their clothes, or something similar, he'd shrug it off as to 'just the kind of thing that happens during war, nothing really to do with the guys, themselves; probably happens to everyone now and again.' He figured if there was a real problem, Sergeant Major Rawlins would either handle it or come to him with a request for assistance. 

Same with coming back from a job, him being taken for debriefing, coming back to find his men still waiting for their debriefing, the coffee and sandwiches sometimes arriving as requested but just as often not, medical care for the four of them being sparse and almost absent-minded. He'd excused all that, early on, knowing how much of a madhouse it could be at HQ, so many irons in the fire for everyone. 

And there were the times they'd made the long trip back to the Mansion, even though they were totally worn out, rather than spend it in Temporary Quarters in HQ, him being told basically, 'sorry, Lieutenant. There's no room for your guys. Oh, we can put YOU up in Officers' Quarters, sure, but your team? Well, there's probably free bunks down in the cell-block. We could have the MP's take them down. You can collect them on your way out in the morning. No, quartering them in civilian quarters is totally out of the question, Lieutenant. We're not quite THAT naive, you know; would be getting all kinds of complaints from the trouble they'd cause chasing around! Officers' quarters with you??? Hell, no!!!' 

Garrison would look at his team of weary men, knowing the only thing they would be chasing around after would be a few hours of sack time, maybe a solid meal, would gather them up and head out to commandeer a jeep. Since he had no intention of dumping the guys in the brig if he could help it, knowing all they'd gone through to get the job done; knowing too that they'd be likely to be involved in a brawl with whoever ELSE was in there, maybe even the guards, they'd all make their way back in the dark, in a jeep traveling without lights due to the blackout rules, that making it difficult if not impossible to avoid all the ruts and holes in the road. He tried to ignore the muttered curses he heard on those trips; it wasn't as if he wasn't doing a little internal cursing of his own.

There were the fights, the quarrels, on Base, at the pub, up at HQ. Sure, he knew sometimes the regular military guys probably got out of line with his men, saying things probably better left unsaid, though not usually in his hearing; he also knew his guys were cons and not given to the more placatory social skills (except for perhaps Actor). No, he'd catch bits and pieces of conversations, sometimes some scuttlebutt in the Commissary that accounted for those new bruises and grazes and sullen looks, but that was nothing he'd really addressed, other than to firmly tell the four members of the team, "Look, just ignore them. I can't have you guys getting into a fight every time someone decides to mouth off!" Though he did notice it was happening more and more, and wondered sometimes just how much more was going on when he wasn't around.

Until it rapidly started to change, until HE started to change. When mission after mission strengthened the bonds, not just between the cons, but between all five men, when he stopped seeing them as 'garbage can hoods' he was using to get a job done, started seeing them as talented and determined men engaged in the same fight he was fighting, though perhaps entering into that fight with different motivations than his own. A highly diverse team of men, perhaps difficult and stubborn and capable of more head-shaking shenanigans than he could sometimes believe or comprehend, but men engaged and giving it their all to make his plans work and get back alive, ALL of them, and paying the price for it more often than not. 

And as he changed in how he saw them, he started to change in how he saw everything else. He came to realize and resent that he was fighting the war on more than one front, but still, he remembered his training, held in his rising temper. Just as he held in his temper when dealing with his fellow officers who either shook their heads in disgust at "those cons you have to put up with", or who offered to put in a word to get him assigned to "something better. Hell, Garrison, you're West Point! You don't deserve this!" 

Yet, even as his view changed, he still kept his cool, gritted his teeth and kept a smile when he could, a calm, professional demeanor for those times when a smile just didn't seem appropriate, or even possible. Kept his cool and did his job, still playing, for the most part, the detached professional officer he'd been trained to be. He put up with the less than sterling intel that seemed to affect his team more than most, the veiled and not-so-veiled insults to his team, the sneers and condemnation of his men, all that and much else, thinking it was just part of the war, part of the job. Trying to convince himself of that, anyway, though taking every opportunity to counter the effects, if still in a professional manner. Surely THAT was in keeping with his training, his responsibility. But his patience was starting to wear thin, more so all the time.

So it was that when coming back from a mission with an injured man brought only indifferent treatment at the med unit, he no longer exhibited patience, rationalizing how the unit was probably undersupplied as well as being understaffed and overworked. Now such treatment drew from him a sharp insistence for "some help here, damn it, and now!". 

When the lack of food or drink while they waited in a cold room on wooden chairs for their debriefing had them muttering, when he remembered just how long it had been since they'd had either, now when he was directed out for his own debriefing, would firmly face down whoever was standing guard at the door, resulting in sandwiches and coffee being delivered to his men, although with a grudging resentment apparent to all. 

Til even that wasn't enough, not for the situations that kept arising. Not enough, and one day he took a long look in the mirror and stopped trying to make excuses. When he realized a line had been crossed, realizing with more than a little shame that it had really been crossed much earlier, that he had just ignored it, trying to pretend it wasn't what it was. Tried to underplay the importance. 

When he realized that how he saw his men, how he saw himself as an officer, the leader of this team, that seemed to differ a lot from the way the Brass and others at HQ saw things, and had to think deeply about who was right and who was on the wrong side of the debate. That's when he drew his OWN line, a line in the sand, and soon there was no secret about where he stood.

So it was when he heard the voices in the hallway, heard what was being said, heard Chief urge Casino to step around the men crowding them with a low "come on, Casino - the Warden's waiting; we don't need this shit", turned the corner just in time to see the stocky sergeant try to sucker punch Chief from behind while the other two rushed Casino, he stepped in with a loud shouted demand that stopped everyone in their tracks. Somehow the explanations from the three soldiers, that "these two, they swung first!", well, that might have been something Garrison would have believed at one time, considering Casino's flash temper. But, since he'd seen the start of the incident, knew damned well it HADN'T been his guys, he make short work of the three, sending them scurrying off with a harsh tongue-lashing. 

He hadn't missed the quick look of puzzlement between Chief and Casino, and he knew they'd expected him to believe the soldiers, not them, and he flushed at the thought that that would have been the case at one time. At that point, Garrison decided who he was going to be more likely to believe from now on, well, at least about things like this. Oh, they weren't choir boys, any of them; he snorted at the very thought. He knew he'd still have to push and prod and fight to keep them on their toes and out of trouble. Still, they were HIS team; it was past time he took stock of what that really meant, at least what it really SHOULD mean. 

He knew this would be a topic of conversation around HQ, just like it would be in the Common Room at the Mansion, knew there could be problems arising from his taking this stand. Fair enough, he'd deal with those when they showed up. Chief and Casino watched the firm resolution build on their leader's face, and had to wonder just what he was thinking.

When they'd come back from that Norway job, with Actor still carrying that bullet in his shoulder, with Garrison having a similar wound but in the other arm, he'd looked at the med trays the nurses brought in and frowned. Sulfa, bandages, tape on both trays; on HIS tray, a hypodermic with two small vials, an antibiotic and a painkiller, those being items NOT on his second-in-command's tray, a couple of aspirin seeming to be deemed sufficient there, though Actor was still carrying that bullet and Garrison's wound a less severe graze. A calm question, then a not-so-calm retort led to a second set of vials being brought. The medic was more than a little annoyed when Garrison insisted the FIRST set of vials be administered to Actor; somehow, that led to a quick realization that the second set was 'not the right dates, Lieutenant; I'll get substitutes', and it was ten minutes before a grim-faced and impatient doctor came and administered those newly-found vials to a seething Garrison. There had been a few words, not quite out of earshot, between Garrison, the doctor and the medic, Actor hearing just enough to wonder if there had been anything other than plain water in those vials brought so reluctantly for him. His growing respect for their young leader grew a little more, though now mixed with concern for what trouble that might cause Garrison. 

Seeing the incidents involving each of his men, Garrison was now feeling a growing anger and irritation, but still keeping control, trying not to make more waves than really necessary. Oh, he took action, demanded they get their due, but he'd still maintained a firm hold on his temper. That is, until he'd turned that corner, had seen a flushed and defiant Goniff being pressed against the wall by an aggressive Lieutenant Barton, Barton's forearm pressed tightly against Goniff's throat, saw the smile of cold malice on the officer's face, saw the blood trickling from one corner of his pickpocket's mouth, the defiance and bitter anger in those blue eyes, that had somehow changed in a heartbeat. He'd let out a shout, rushed up to shove in between, giving the startled Barton a hard glare along with a hard push. Turning to Goniff, he'd only half heard Barton's quick, insistent explanation, "I told him to come help pull things from supply; he gave me some lip and tried to ignore a direct order." 

He was focused more on the sheer fury in Goniff's eyes, the snarled, "ain't exactly what 'e wanted, Warden, not less you 'ave a pretty wide view of 'wanting to 'elp 'im pull things from supply!'" Garrison saw Goniff's eyes flinch in anticipation, and he whirled, caught Barton's fist that was aimed for Goniff's face in one hand. Garrison swung with his other fist, connecting with the Lieutenant's gut with a heavy thud, watched with satisfaction as the man doubled and hit the floor, wretching in response. Barton was down for the count, and while Goniff looked down at Barton in shock, then up at Garrison, swallowing heavily. "'E's gonna be pissed as 'ell, you know that, Warden! It's gonna make trouble. Why'd you 'it 'im? One more fist to the 'ead wouldn't a made much difference - already gave me a couple a good ones earlier." 

And then, angry, intense green eyes had stared into bewildered blue ones, a surprisingly gentle right hand making soft contact with Goniff's jaw, tilting it upward, appraising the damage, and the answer had been given, loud and clear, and there was no hesitation, no doubt. "You're a member of my team; you're important to me, Goniff. ALL of you are important to me, PERSONALLY, not just because of the job. You, yourself. And I'm not going to just stand aside and watch you get hurt, NONE of you, not if I can do something about it." He watched those blue eyes, now puzzled, worried, then increduluous, then, almost glowing with a light Garrison didn't, couldn't even begin to understand.

And yes, Barton had complained, though putting a quite different spin on it, of course. Garrison had been called in, and while he remained professional, there was no longer any doubt; a line had been drawn in the sand, and the young officer had made it quite clear where he stood. While it didn't remove all the problems, not by a long shot, even caused a few extra, well, the word got around. "Yeah, they're cons, thugs, gorillas. But make no mistake, they're GARRISON'S gorillas; anyone tries any shit with them, he gets real pissed! Never knew he had a temper before, but damn!!!" 

That's when it started, whenever anyone brought up the American Lieutenant and his group of cons based at the Mansion in Brandonshire - the nickname they were at first amused by, then smugly gratified to hear - 'Garrison's Gorillas'. The name said a lot, to both sides, and enough people got the message that a few ugly incidents perhaps were avoided. But for them, it was more than that, it was one more indication that they weren't just four cons doing a job - it was more, THEY were more. They were Garrison's Gorillas, and they decided they liked that idea. Garrison found himself with a wry grin more than once upon hearing that name, having decided he liked the idea too, though snorting at what his father would have said to the whole notion.

After that little discussion up in the Common Room, where over a drink from that hidden bottle, when they were discussing that new nickname, Goniff repeated once again those words Garrison had spoken, and a new bond was formed, older bonds reinforced. 

And for Goniff, a new realization, that the dream he'd had early on, where Garrison had stepped between him and King Marston and his thugs, that dream had solid grounding, wasn't just his weary (oh, so weary!) mind trying to make sense of things. And perhaps there was a grounding for something else, a justification for his growing concern and caring for the young officer. Not that anything would ever come of THAT, of course, and not that he'd ever say anything, most like, but still it was good to know there was some good reason for it, not just being total foolishness on his part. It was good to know.


End file.
